Hitting the Wall

You may not be aware of this, but there are people occupying a small park near Wall Street, right now. It all kicked off with a march of about a thousand people (perhaps less, depending on who you believe) protesting “the blatant injustices of our times perpetuated by the economic and political elites” on September 17, 2011. A smaller contingent stayed behind after the initial protest with the intention of  “occupying” Wall Street until their demands are met.

If you haven’t heard, that’s because the mainstream media has been pretty quiet about the protest. The reasons for this media brownout are deemed many: There is no centralized organization (although that doesn’t stop the media from covering the TEA Party every time they fart), the movement is just not that big, and there is no major figure supporting the cause (although, thus far, Roseanne Barr, Lupe Fiasco, Michael Moore, Susan Sarandon and Cornell West have all stopped by to show some love).

The biggest reason for a lack of coverage, however, according to what I’ve seen reported by the press, is a lack of specificity on behalf of the protesters.  The New York City General Assembly, the group that seems to be creating the policy for which the protesters advocate, offer a list of  “demands” on their website which they call their Principals of Solidarity.

Read the rest on From the Bottom Up on theurbantwist.com

Tea & Sympathy

The numbers are in. In the wake of the worst recession since the Great Depression of the early 20th Century, we now have more poor people than we’ve had since we started keeping track of poor folk—46.2 million. That’s over 15% of Americans now defined as poor, up from about 14% the previous year. In case you need to understand how our country defines poverty, if your family of four makes less than $22,314 a year, you are poor.

I’ve been there.

Read the rest of the story on my column, From the Bottom Up, on TheUrbanTwist.com

9-11 is a Joke

I got out of bed today, September 11, 2011, at the exact same time I did ten years ago. I know this because I did the same thing I did ten years ago—I turned on the television. It was 8:46 a.m. They had begun a moment of silence in remembrance of the very moment the first plane hit the North Tower. What a tragedy, I thought then, a terrible accident, as the folks on Good Morning America tried to make sense of it all.

And then the second plane struck the South Tower. I saw it—a plane streaked from the right of the television screen and slammed right into the other building. Everyone who had become glued to the television, by this point, saw it—9:03 a.m. At that moment, there came the collective realization that we were under attack. This was no coincidence. This was an act full of intent and malice.

I was angry. I was scared.

(Read the rest of the story on my column, From the Bottom Up, on TheUrbanTwist.com)

A Little Puerto Rican

It had become such a part of my youth that I was shocked to learn during my first day in the ninth grade that I was no longer the Smallest Kid in the Class. That honor went to some kid named Eddie who had me beat by a good inch or so. Although I hated being so small, I was disappointed by having lost my title. I was still teased, but I’d lost the only thing that had set me apart since moving to Maryland two years earlier.

Being Puerto Rican—the strongest part of my identity back in Jersey—meant nothing here. No one at Stemmer’s Run Junior High had ever met a Hispanic, much less a Puerto Rican. “Are you Indian?” they would ask, a question that plagues me to this day. “Is that Mexican?” was the next question, followed by, “Do you speak Puerto Rican?” I tried not to let the questions, however absurd, bother me, and I answered them patiently. “No, I’m not Indian. Mexican’s are different. We all speak Spanish.” I also started using Freddy, my father’s nickname, because I couldn’t stand the twang they added when saying Fernando.

What did bother me were those who insisted on mocking my uniqueness with their own labels, like the kids at Hampstead Hill Junior High in Highlandtown that called me The Cambonian, or those in high school that refused to consider me anything besides Mexican or The Immigrant. One of those kids, a boy of Italian descent named Tony, wanted to beat the shit out of me when, after months of harassment, I pointed out that my family, having been granted citizenship dating back to 1899 following the Spanish-American War, had been Americans longer, most likely, than his family.

He refused to accept the facts, even though I opened up a history book and pointed out to him the part where Spain gave up Puerto Rico as part of the treaty ending the war, and where all Puerto Ricans were granted citizenship a few years thereafter.

Being so detached from my culture, my size became the only thing that set me apart, as long as I could find ways use it to my advantage. As boys who, like me, grew up height disadvantaged know all too well, the tendency is to get picked on incessantly. I was no different, except that I was more game than most. 

During the Hampstead years, rather than fighting the inevitable, I would ingratiate myself to my tormentors by playing the willing victim. “Sure, you can see how far you can lift/toss/bench press me,” just became part of my vocabulary. When someone suggested that I be placed in a gym bag and hung from a basketball hoop, I was the first to try to fit in the bag. And anytime they played their little macho games, like Letter B, or the one to test how hard a punch you could take right to the sternum, I was always all-in, making sure they realized that I could take it with the best of them.

It didn’t take long before I was just another one of the group. What’s more, they decided that being their little guy, their French Fry as I was dubbed, I had to be protected. Anytime anyone outside our group tried to mess with me, one, if not all of them, would break in and scare off the offender. It wasn’t hard considering that my little gang included the biggest boys in Hampstead: Kirk, Russell and Stan. They were all nearly six feet tall by eighth grade. 

Kirk and Stan tipped the scales at close to, if not over, 200 pounds. I once got to see Kirk and Stan wrestle each other near Patterson Park. Afraid of getting in trouble, we all scattered after Kirk picked Stan up and slammed him into a car leaving a huge Stan-shaped dent on the side.

There was a downside. I could never stick up for myself, even when I wanted to. 

I was seeing this girl named Bobbi Jo who I’d met on top of one of the Spiders, what we called huge twin the playsets that inhabited the playground in Patterson Park. The older kids would climb unto the rooves, the Spider's back, where we could get away from the younger kids. It offered a great view of the park, as well as the perfect lookout point for police. 

Bobbi Jo was one of the first girls to show an interest in me since I’d moved to Baltimore from Middle River. She was welcoming, friendly and sweet. She was also a little too boyish for my thirteen-year-old tastes, short hair, flat chest. But as easy as it was for me to attract a girlfriend in Jersey, it was equally as hard to find one here. Here, I had to take what I could get.

Bobbi Jo was maybe a little too friendly, though. The day we met, after some flirting and kissing, we walked across the park to get home. I lived just west of the park, on Pratt Street. She lived northwest, near Patterson Park Avenue. We got to a large bush sitting in the shadow of The Pagoda that stands watch from the top of Hampstead Hill, the very hill that defended the city successfully during the Battle of Baltimore, in 1812.

As usual, I got distracted by the Pagoda, and when I looked back, she was gone. The bush whispered to me, beckoned me. I followed the voice, found the opening and made my way inside. With its thin trunk and its long, bowing branches, the bush created a cove, of sorts, that kept us hidden from the rest of the park. Inside was Bobbi Jo, and I was faced with a bush of another kind. Bobbi Jo had pulled down her tiny O.P. shorts, spread her legs.

"We can fuck if you want," she said.

I was never a prude, was always eager to give up my virginity, but this was sudden, unexpected. I immediately got nervous and scared. I apologized and made up some excuse about being late for dinner. Another time.

Bobbi Jo casually pulled her shorts back up, followed me out of the bush, and continued our walk to the top of the hill. I mentioned how cool the bush was, and that we would be hanging out there plenty, in the future. We kissed one last time on the corner of Patterson Park Avenue and Baltimore Street, said our goodbyes, and promised we'd see each other the next day.

Bobbi Jo wasn’t on top of either of the Spiders the next day. Her cousin Tammy was there, however, and introduced herself. She also introduced me to French kissing. Actually, I had French kissed once before. 

The day we left Middle River for Baltimore, as I was making my rounds, saying my goodbyes, Tasha, one of the cutest girls in Riverdale Village, invited me into her apartment. I'd always had a biggest crush on her, but she had barely ever said more than a few words to me the year I lived in Middle River. She closed the door behind us, whipped around, grabbed me, put her lips to mine, and our tongues were dancing, like flames. So I guess Tammy was actually practice. 

Tammy was more my type, more feminine, prettier. After a few hours with Tammy, I decided that I needed to break up with Bobbi Jo. Tammy said that Bobbi Jo would be there early the next morning. I ran off, excited, in love, delighted at my turn of events. I had choices!

Jimmy, one of my not-so-big friends, was the only one I told about the experience. Jimmy led around a crew of misfits that were always fun to hang around with. Jimmy soon realized that I wasn't really a follower, that I was just as smart and charismatic as he was, so we became close friends. I would go to his house, where he would brag about incredible lie after incredible lie while we played Atari. 

I hadn't seen him in a couple of days, so I was excited to tell him about my girl problems.He knew Bobbi Jo, so I asked him not to mention a word to her. I wanted to be the one to tell her so that I could break it to her as gently as possible. But when I saw Bobbi Jo the next day, she already knew. Jimmy had told her.

Furious, I found Jimmy on the playground and after a few choice words, punched him in the mouth. I wanted a chance to beat the piss out of him. He was eager for a little mano a mano, too, but Kirk and Russell weren’t about to let me get in a real fight. They stepped in and kept us separated. Granted, when Jimmy’s big brother Joe came around looking to exact revenge for hitting Jimmy so hard that he had to have the orthodontist separate his lips from his braces, the guys were there to stop that too.

Looking back, I’m grateful to have had them around. Kirk once saved me from a stint in Juvie. There was one idiot in my class, I can’t even remember his name, who just seemed to have it out for me. Coming in late for school one day, he took the opportunity of passing by my desk to knock my books to the floor. When I got my chance, I knocked his books across the room. 

Next period, gym, coming out of the locker room, I felt an arm wrap around my neck and yank me to the ground. The idiot was choking the life out of me, and the more I struggled, the harder he squeezed. Finally, just when I thought I would pass out, he let me go.

Once I caught my breath, I peeled myself off the ground and picked up the first thing I could find, an aluminum baseball bat. That bastard had his back turned to me chatting with some friends. I crept up close behind him and swung, as hard as I could. The bat stopped inches from his head with a smack as Kirk caught it with one hand. 

“Freddy, are you nuts?!” I remembered Kirk yelling as he yanked the bat out of my hand. I felt nuts. I must have looked it too, judging by the fear in that kid’s eyes when he spun around to realize how close he had come to getting beaned by the little Puerto Rican. He didn’t give me any problems after that.

High school pretty much broke up our little band. I got into Baltimore Polytechnic while everyone else was fated to attend Patterson High, their zoned school. Two plus hours of daily travel time and a heavy homework load made it nearly impossible to even meet up with the old crew, except for the occasional weekend. They were always excited to see me, but I could tell even then that they were getting used to not having me around. None of them felt the need to see how high they could lift me or how far they could toss me anymore. They didn’t need me. They’d never needed me.

I didn’t need them either, I would think in fits of anger. They never even let me fight my own battles. But that’s not exactly true. It’s not that they felt I couldn’t handle myself in a fight. The truth was that they knew that while I did hang out with them, I wasn’t part of them. They knew then what I’ve only realized recently. As violent as they could be, they could see I wasn’t. Not really. I just needed to fit in somewhere. They weren’t protecting me from getting hurt. They were protecting me from becoming like them. And now, I had outgrown them.

I ran into Kirk one chilly November night on Castle Street. He asked me what I was up to, and I let him know I had decided to join Poly’s wrestling team. “Oh yeah?” he replied, all excited, “Let me see what you got French Fry!” He reached out to grab me in one of his crushing bear hugs. I ducked under, grabbed around his knees offering a hug of my own, and pulled, hard. He fell on his back with a loud ¡fwoomp! and started laughing uncontrollably. 

I helped him up and he was still laughing, shaking his head. He offered me a friendlier, less painful embrace. “It’s great seeing you, French Fry” he said, still laughing, still shaking his head as we both continued on our separate paths.

lullaby

A poem I wrote during the first anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, once I realized Bush was going to use the tragedy to promote his political agenda.

lullaby

Rock a Bye baby

on the tree top

Sleep tight America—

slumbering giant— 9-1-1

was no emergency.

Rest assured that our

government has our best

interests at heart, like

when daddy used Afghanistan

to slay the big bad red

bear then left it in a lurch,

lost in poverty, lost

in discord, little land lost

with nothing but its rock

& sand & guns, & poppy

fields. But father knows

best!

When the wind blows

the cradle will rock

Night night America—rest

right knowing the son,

the puppet president,

has it all under control,

the bees buzz buzz buzzing

in his ear, telling him where

to steer the bombs to leave

the corpses of our bastard

brothers, bloodied & belittled

because they would not be

ignored. The sins of our

children directly reflect

our fathers at their worst.

When the bough breaks

the cradle will fall

Let's fight America—hold

your flags up high

as you send your children off

to die to keep those Iraqi

pipelines flow flow flowing

with that pitch black blood

pumping up our SUV

fetishes while we let

the red black green

blood flow in the riverbeds

of the Congo—so long as

those niggers keep mining

what we need to power

our laptops, our cellphones

& our playstation²s . Who

the fuck cares which nigger

owns the those mines…

No, its mine! BANG!

NO! It's mine! BANG!

NO! IT'S MINE! BANG!

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

All while daddy stands idly

by.

Down will come baby

cradle & ALL

Peace is in sight America-

Ginsberg was wrong, Ferlinghetti

was wrong, there is no need

to howl & scream, those dead

& beat beats didn't know we could

dream while our country watches

over us, profiling us in our sleep,

the land of the free

to be afraid. So just keep sitting

tight America

ready to fight

flexing your might

ignoring the light

shortening your sights

abandoning your rights

just so you can sleep

through the night.

Hush little babies

don't say a word,

I'm just some insomniac

mocking bird crying the call

of down will come baby

cradle

& all.

September 12, 2002